


Vegas Lights Breeds Vegas Doubts

by BeatlessMelody



Category: Men's Hockey RPF
Genre: Gen, HES A GOOD BOY, ILY, M/M, NHL RPF, alcohol tw, alt canon i guess, because SOMETIMES i have emotions about them, brock boeser - mentioned, canucks - Freeform, canucks rpf, hockey rpf - Freeform, i needed to for the drama, idk the reasons just reasons, in the end im a soft bastard and i CANNOT keep quinn sad, it started out semi angst but like, petey and quinn being goblins, petey calling quinn pet names in swedish makes me soft, rpf bullshit, shoutout to seb for being my beta and encouraging this, sometimes....a bitch needs to write about the canucks, sorry for taking away the fact that you got a point in your first nhl game boo, stop bullying brock 2k19, the joys of rookiehood, yes i KNOW when quinn debuted i fucked w it i needed them to be in vegas for reasons
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-07
Updated: 2019-04-07
Packaged: 2020-01-06 09:32:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,285
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18385739
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BeatlessMelody/pseuds/BeatlessMelody
Summary: Defeat is a bitter pill. But one soothed by a spoonful of honey (Or rum)





	Vegas Lights Breeds Vegas Doubts

A loss was always followed by the urge to go clubbing, to get lost in the pulse of music and too-expensive drinks. And where better to do that than Vegas itself? Unfortunately not everyone could join when the boys left after the game. 

 

Differentiations in legal drinking ages were a  _ bitch. _

 

—not to say that they weren’t drinking, of course. Elias with a bomb of different liquors and coke that did not taste as good as the Swede seemed to have thought it would. And Quinn sticking with a relatively weak rum and coke - they had a flight tomorrow, after all, and then a practice after that.

 

Over and over and over again until death or retirement. Amen.

 

Ice clinked against the plastic sides of the bottle that often held far healthier liquids, melodious echoes over the song bursting from the phone Pettersson had discarded upon the other bed as soon as they were alone. 

 

_ “ _ Not the best debut, huh.”

 

The statement broke the crust of the ambient noises, pierced the air and drew Petterssons questioning gaze towards the other.

 

“Vegas is a good team. Not your fault that we weren’t up to it.”

 

A team effort in losing, that’s for sure. The team had slacked, and the Knights tore them down. It happened, it wasn’t as if Quinn wasn’t raised on this. Raised seeing his brothers succeed then be crushed, as if his own minor career hadn’t felt the brunt of the double edged sword fate carried too many times to count.

 

Defeat was a bitter pill, but it had its uses. 

 

Defeat made you better. Made you push the limits, train harder, skate faster. But when it seems the entire world is screaming your name. When it rests on your shoulders to bring home a Cup—

 

Defeat wasn’t the thorn that accompanied the rose. It was a razor blade slicing your throat, severing vocal chords until your fear is silenced.

 

Quinn was raised on the ice, but ice is unforgiving. And so were its fans.

 

“Just sucks, I guess.”

 

A shrug, a rough swallow of the drink in his hands. Rum heavy and dark on his tongue as the carbonation faded.

 

Bitter.

 

——

 

Elias shifted, knees knocking with Quinns own. His liquor concoction balanced precariously upon the white sheets of the bed. The catlike urge to knock it over and watch the stain spread was swallowed with the saliva that gathered under his tongue.

 

Silence drew its blanket around them for a long few seconds, and then Petterssons hand came up—

 

—And smacked Quinn square in the forehead with an open palm. Breaking the silence with Hughe’s childish laughter, and Elias’s grinning words. 

 

“Älskling, shut up.”

 

They hadn’t been ‘together’ for long, per se. Together in all sense of the word. Teammates, friends.. other things. Why put labels on a single damn thing when it wasn’t necessary? When ‘I love you’ had always flowed easy as honey off of Quinn’s tongue, was it really overtly different when it was said to Pettersson rather than Brady? When it was said to his mother?

 

No.

 

Fate had drawn them together. Close in age, the young talents learned quickly to lean upon each other. They were to be the new faces of the franchise. Soon to replace the Sedins— Quinn could hear the whispers as clear as day.

 

What pressure to put upon someone barely an adult. But wasn’t this what he wanted? The world saw his talent, built their worship towers in his name. The crash could not help but follow such expectations. 

Quinn pushed, hand against the taller males cheek. Pressure, and back Pettersson tumbled. They both saw the cup fall in slow motion. 

 

Reflexes quick enough to follow a puck across ice weren’t quick enough to catch it. Liquor splashed. White sheets stained, the front of both of them sticky with the alcohol soaking through their shirts where it splashed up. Elias got the worst of it, thank God. 

 

Silence dropped. Wide eyed gazes exchanged.

 

Quinn’s lips were the first to crack a smile, probably because he wasn't the one absolutely covered in the stickiness. 

 

It didn't take long for the shock in Elias’ face to change, shifting into that grin. Laughter, and muttered curses in Swedish that Quinn had yet to pick up. It wasn't hard to figure out the meaning, wasn't hard to assume that it was anything serious. Anything that wasn't going to be washed away by laughter and a quick shower. 

 

“I’m not sleeping on that.” “You won’t.” a pause. A twinkle in the Swedes eye that surely meant he was up to something, “Brock can.” Who was Quinn to refuse? Seniority rules- or so would be the excuse if asked. 

 

Quinn swore it took less than two minutes to strip the stained coverings of the bed, for Brock’s hotel room to be opened with the spare key Edler had left with the rookies ‘just in case of emergencies.’ “Isn’t this an emergency? Our new star cannot be sleeping on sticky sheets.” Pettersson had said as they walked in. Quinn didn’t argue, only rolled his eyes and shoved further into the room. 

 

Surprisingly clean, considering everything. It wasn’t for long, as the bed confirmed to be Brocks was stripped, clean sheets thrown over chairs, the other bed. Replaced soon enough with the wet ones. Sickly sweet smell wafting up, clogging their nasal cavities with the scent. 

 

It didn't last long. Was no worse than the locker room after a hard game. Plus the payoff of fucking with a poor, drunken Brock who was definitely going to want to just  _ sleep _ when they got back-

Well, that would be worth it enough.

 

“Perfect.” Petterssons voice was prouder than he had ever heard it as the stain was covered by a fresh, fluffy blanket from the linen closet supplied to them. No one would know, until it was too late… provided that the concoction didn't leak through all other layers before the team got home. 

 

Hopeful thinking, but hope had gotten him this far.

 

“He’s gonna kill us, you know. And when he comes I’m throwing you under the bus.” “Too pretty to go to jail. And he’ll be too hungover to move, we’re fine.”  


Hughes shoulder was nudged, one hand from the other man finding its way to pull playfully at a few sweeps of unruly hair curling upon Quinns forehead. Scene of the crime abandoned for the moment, instead their energy was spent on putting back the  _ other _ bed with the stolen sheets. Swedish pop blaring through the hotel room at 1:15am - sure to get noise complaints, with how Elias screamed along with it. 

 

But even that wasn’t enough to completely drown out the confused yell and thud from just two rooms away, and the uproarious laughter that followed suit when the team got back. Finding out the day after that Brock, in his drunken state, had struggled to make the connection between the stickiness of the bedsheets and it being a type of liquid not a whole person that apparently could just dissolve into the bed on contact. 

 

They were idiots. All of them. Quinn knew that even before his first game. But they were a team, and through better or worse they were  _ his _ idiots now. How could he complain, when he got the opportunity to make his dreams come true. Play in front of thousands screaming his name.

 

When he had the opportunity to wake up to the haze of dawn, limbs still entangled with Petterssons from how they had passed out the night before. A silent moment of softness before the hustle of planes and practise. 

 

Quinn could get used to this, he knew it.


End file.
